How Sandy Rollins missed the first ball he reached for was something he never understood. When he struck, he felt absolutely certain that he would meet it full upon the trademark. His failure brought a ludicrous expression of surprise to his face. The Blue Stockings’ rooters yelled madly. Most of them were on their feet now, staring down into the diamond. The opposing fans, beginning to lose hope, divided their efforts between hurling caustic comments at the batter and trying to break the pitcher up. In this latter attempt they were unsuccessful. Locke paid absolutely no attention to them. It is doubtful whether he was conscious of their presence. He was not faltering now. He was wasting no time, yet he did not hurry. He put over an erratic curve that fooled Rollins even more than had the first one. Indeed, the ball seemed actually to dodge the bat as the Hornets’ baseman slashed at it. Another roar went up which drowned the umpire’s voice. Nolan, quivering with eagerness, held himself ready to run, working off third. Lefty drove him back. A hush settled upon the field. It almost seemed as if each little human atom of the thousands which overflowed the wide sweep of stand and bleacher had ceased to breathe. Even the coachers were silent for the instant――and Locke pitched. Rollins’ judgment told him that the ball would cut a corner when it broke. He was not mistaken. It came over; but, instead of crossing the outside corner, as he expected, it took such a sharp, amazing shoot over the inside that the batter missed cleanly. “Out!” shouted the umpire, flinging up one hand. CHAPTER XLVI HOW IT ALL HAPPENED Cheer after cheer went up from the throng of visiting fans. Hats and canes and newspapers were thrown into the air with careless abandon. Men brought their fists down on shoulders and heads of persons they had never seen before; and these persons merely pushed out the tops of crushed derbies, and grinned. Down from the stands they poured like a cataract, yelling Locke’s name. They caught and surrounded him before he could flee to the shelter of the clubhouse. Jack Stillman was one of the first to reach the field. Though he longed to hurry over to Lefty and shake his friend’s hand, there was something more important which must be done first. He headed straight for Brennan, who, with gloomy countenance, was about to leave the field. “Wait a second, Jim,” the reporter called swiftly. “I’ve got something to tell you. You fired Lefty Locke because you thought he was a quitter,” he went on when they came together. “You needn’t rub it in,” snapped the sorely tried manager. “If that’s all you’ve got to say――” “It isn’t,” returned Stillman quickly. “Locke said he never wrote that fake telegram which called him away from Ashland the day of the game he was to pitch. He told the truth. It was sent by one of his own teammates, who hated him and wanted to put him in bad.”